


Stress Fracture

by MMXIII



Series: Indelible Suite [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Anxiety, Bucky Barnes Feels, Caretaking, Chronic Illness, Comfort, Depression, Domestic, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Loneliness, M/M, Nightmares, Sad!Steve, Sick!Bucky, Sickfic, Steve Rogers Feels, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, alone in company, boys can't catch a break, bucky barnes is not recovering, carer!Steve, like for real
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-03
Updated: 2019-03-03
Packaged: 2019-11-08 08:33:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17977916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MMXIII/pseuds/MMXIII
Summary: Only a few weeks ago they’d sent in a specialist to tell him he was stressed.Was he eating at regular intervals? Was he getting out of the house?That’d made him laugh, in a belligerent sort of a way.What did it matter, he’d thought, if /he/ wasn’t eating, if /he/ couldn’t sleep?[Or the one where Bucky still isn't getting better and Steve isn't coping]





	Stress Fracture

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mahtayyar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mahtayyar/gifts).



> A rough sequel to ‘Indelible’ for Mahtayyar.  
> #whybetimelywhenyoucanbelikefiftyyearslate
> 
> This doesn't quite match up with the first one (it's been a while...) but I wanted to give it a shot :)

Steve wakes up with a start, head pounding, heart racing – nauseous in the wake of some awful dream. For whole seconds he just can’t shake it off: the dark, the cold, the feeling of blind, inviolate terror. Panting, he fumbles for the water bottle on the nightstand. He tries to tip it into his mouth but most of it ends up down his front and suddenly it all comes rushing back: the shuddering groan of the sea ice, the brutalising cold, freezing black saltwater filling his mouth and nose and--

He shudders, half propped up on his side, and squeezes his eyes shut.

He can’t remember the last time he slept well.

 

If it’s not the ice it’s the war: mutilated bodies and desolate plains. Sometimes it’s D.C., the helicarrier – he always breaks Buck’s neck. Now and again it’s just abstract: shapeless, formless swells of terror and confusion and despair.

He rolls onto his back and blinks dumbly at the ceiling. It’s early – the light behind the window is a cold, pale blue.

 

Only a few weeks ago they’d sent in a specialist to tell him he was stressed.

_Was he eating at regular intervals? Was he getting out of the house?_

That’d made him laugh, in a belligerent sort of a way.

What did it matter, he’d thought, if  _he_  wasn’t eating, if  _he_  couldn’t sleep?

 

He turns his cheek down into the pillow and looks across the bed.

Buck’s perfectly still, lying on his back with his arm folded loosely across his body. His eyes are closed, breathing even and unlaboured. There’s no telling whether or not he’s awake.

Steve swallows tightly and looks away. Now that he’s disturbed the bedclothes, the sharp smell of urine is difficult to ignore.

 

He showers almost in the dark, the light from the small strip bulb above the sink allowing him to see just enough to navigate the bathroom and wash himself. He turns the water up until it’s almost hotter than he can stand and scrubs himself down: underarms, legs, groin. He washes his hair too, scrubbing the shampoo in and out carelessly.

He doesn’t shave.

 

He gets Buck’s pills together while the coffee machine whirs, counting out the tablets; recounting them. When he’s done he packs up the bottles and packets neatly and marks up the small calendar taped to the inside of the cupboard door. He’s always careful.

Banner had taken him aside only last week and told him quietly that they were nearing a tipping point with the drugs, that the heavy-duty antipsychotics would need to be phased out in order to accommodate a stronger variation of the complex painkillers. A shift in focus towards pain management, he’d explained, would ensure that Buck was comfortable. The trade-off, he’d said, with terrible empathy, was that the confusion and nausea would almost certainly get worse.

Buck, as a rule, isn’t interested in prognosis or any details of his treatment so it’d been up to Steve to agree and sign all the relevant paperwork. He’d felt drained afterwards. And angry, in a strange, diffuse sort of a way.

He’d spent the rest of the day with the same words turning over and over in his head:

 

_Terminal._

_Palliative._

_Power of attorney._

Steve blinks, realizing he’s been staring blankly at the worktop. He drops twelve pills in a cup and closes the cupboard door.

 

He’s heading back through the lounge when he hears his phone buzz loudly against the coffee table. He hesitates, then picks it up and taps it open. The home screen is crowded with an accumulation of unanswered texts and Whatsapp messages. There’s nothing from Banner.

He sets the phone back on the table.             

According to his service provider his voicemail inbox is full. He’s never checked to see what with.

 

When he ducks back into the bedroom he finds it empty. Instead the light’s on in the bathroom.

Cold panic slices through his body but he tamps it down furiously. Heart suddenly pounding, he steps up to the column of yellow light spilling out through the open door.

The tiled floor—almost blinding under the lights—is strewn with discarded clothes. The man at the sink is naked save for a thin white t-shirt that hangs off his grey, emaciated body.

As Steve watches, Buck reaches up, stiff and one-armed, and slowly tugs the t-shirt over his head. His back is ridged with ribs, bruised and scarred up to hell.

Steve turns away.  

 

It takes fifteen minutes to strip, clean, and remake the bed. The mattress has a plastic cover on it now so all Steve has do is wipe it down with disinfectant.

He opens the window when he’s done to air out the room.

 

He loads half the dirty sheets in the washing machine and sets up a wash/dry cycle. Then, suddenly exhausted, he heads for the couch in the lounge. The room is cool and dark – he hasn’t drawn the blinds yet. He tips his head back, frowning mutely at the twinge in his neck. God, he’s so tired.

He only means to sit down for a minute.

 

‘I know you ain’t sleeping.’

 

Steve jerks awake, startled. For a moment he’s disorientated; he looks down at himself, blinking dumbly, then up at Bucky.

The couch dips as Buck sits down. He’s clean and damp-looking, bundled up in fresh sweats and thick grey socks. He’s frowning, gaze direct and unwavering. His face is gaunt, the hollows of his eyes black in the low-light.

Steve dredges up an abortive smile.

‘I’m sleeping fine,’ he says quietly. He scrubs his hand over his face carelessly, beard rough under his fingers. He’s a little dizzy but that’s par for the course these days. He knows he ought to take better care.

Bucky snorts, folding his arms and settling back into the couch. He doesn’t look away.

Steve drops his gaze. After a beat he shifts forward, meaning to get up. He needs to finish the laundry, call Banner, go over the paperwork from the lawyers and--

 

‘I know you been lonely.’

 

Steve flinches, shame blooming white-hot in his stomach.

 _I’m not,_ he means to say,  _I’m fine._ But he can’t get the words out. He can feel his throat closing up, face going hot and blotchy. He drops his head, hunching his shoulders, and lets out a shaky exhale.

He shouldn’t miss Buck when he’s right there. He knows that. He doesn’t know what’s wrong with him.

With a jolt he realises he’s crying.

The couch shifts under him and suddenly Buck’s pulling at the scruff of his neck, turning his face, kissing him.

It’s rough, almost violent, more a headlock than a kiss. Their teeth click, noses pressed close, but as soon as Bucky’s hand squeezes his nape Steve melts into it, kissing back, pushing up into Buck’s hold. Relief and fatigue shudder through his body and suddenly he can barely keep his eyes open. He makes a small hurt noise as Bucky softens the kiss and pulls back, thumb stroking high over Steve’s cheek.

‘You think I don’t know?’ he murmurs.

Steve closes his eyes. He shakes his head fractionally before letting it thunk softly against Buck’s shoulder. He shivers as Bucky’s hand migrates to the crown of his head, roughly pushing his hair back against the grain like he likes the feel of it.

‘Jesus, I’m tired,’ Buck says quietly.

After a moment, he kisses Steve's head.

'We gotta get you some help.'

Steve nods fuzzily, eyes closed, face turned into the shelter of Buck's body.  

 

 

 

*

When Steve blinks awake he’s warm and relaxed. It takes him a second to realize he’s on the couch, lying with his head in Bucky’s lap and a blanket thrown over him.

He squints up at Bucky, who’s miraculously asleep with his own blanket tucked around him. Steve eases himself up slowly, stretching out his arms and legs as he goes. He feels good: lighter, well-rested.

The sun outside is white hot around the edges of the window blinds. He glances at the digital display under the TV. It’s after two in the afternoon. He hasn’t slept for so long in months.

 

He rubs Bucky’s thigh over the blanket.

‘Hey, Buck, we gotta move you to the bed.’

Bucky doesn’t stir.

Steve smiles to himself and pushes a hand through Bucky’s soft, thinning hair. Maybe tomorrow Bucky will feel well enough to go for a drive. That’d be nice. Do them both some good.

‘C’mon, pal. I’ll carry you. It’ll only take a minute.’

Bucky doesn’t respond. Steve’s smile fades.

‘Bucky.’

Heart pounding, he shakes Bucky’s shoulder carefully. Bucky’s head lolls heavily against the back of the couch. His face is blank, unmoving. Steve presses shaking fingers to the underside of Bucky’s jaw. He’s burning hot, pulse crawling sluggishly.

Steve breathes out raggedy. He feels dizzy. He feels sick.

‘Buck, wake up.’


End file.
